


The More Things Change, the More They Stay the Same

by SpaceCowboy_1



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: ADHD Trip Tucker, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Author throws canon clean out the window, Autistic Malcolm Reed, Gen, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Let's pretend that alien names are completely normal 21st century human names, M/M, Stuart Reed's A+ Parenting, This follows Trip and Malcolm through their childhoods sorta, its MY story and I get to decide the bits and pieces of canon i like, plot does a funny little dance to distact you from any stuff that doesn't quite make sense, tags will be updated as I go, they are children - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:01:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28891785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceCowboy_1/pseuds/SpaceCowboy_1
Summary: Moving to Florida at the age of six is going better than Malcolm thought it would. He's made a good friend, an energetic boy called Trip, and kindergarten isn't too shabby. All good things must come to an end, however, and Malcolm ends up moving far, far away, back to England, and then to Malaysia.Trip also has a moving experience of his own, although not quite as extreme. In California, he meets Jon, Hoshi, Travis, T'Pol, and a host of others through the school's poor excuse of a science club, almost forgetting Malcolm entirely.Almost.It's kind of hard to forget someone when you, quite literally, run into them on your way to fourth period. But high school is about as different as it could be from kindergarten, and the same goes for people. Can a friendship cut short from nearly ten years ago still be salvaged? Well, they're certainly going to try.
Relationships: Hoshi Sato/T'Pol, Jonathan Archer & Charles "Trip" Tucker III, Jonathan Archer/Thy'lek Shran, Malcolm Reed & Charles "Trip" Tucker III, Malcolm Reed/Charles "Trip" Tucker III, Travis Mayweather & Hoshi Sato
Comments: 41
Kudos: 19





	1. Talking funny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am an extremely American teen who has never been outside vaeir country, let alone all the way over to England, so I sincerely apologize for any screwups regarding British/English lingo and whatnot.
> 
> I'm aiming for 10 chapters, but we'll see how that works out.

At six years old, Malcolm Reed found himself not only in a different city, but an entirely new country altogether. He was supposed to stay here, in something-or-other, Florida, for who-knew-how long with his mother and sister while his father was off who-knows-where with the Royal navy. And he had to start school here. Kindergarten, it was called. He’d throw a fit if he wasn’t above that sort of thing now, being six years old and all. Six-year-olds didn’t throw fits. Six-year-olds said “please” and “thank you” and were expected to be quiet unless spoken to. He was very grown up, Malcolm thought, reinforced by his mother, who told him the same thing as she fixed his collar while they waited in the front office for a staff member to come escort him to his classroom. While it was not _the_ first day of school (it was October) , it _was_ Malcolm’s, and he was dressed accordingly in his pale blue button-up, brown trousers, and trainers, not a speck of dirt on him. First impressions were important, his Aunt Sherry always said. 

A woman behind the front desk said something about a new student into a phone as his mother said goodbye and a different woman, who introduced herself as Mrs. Watkins, led him out of the office and down a very long hall, the walls adorned with crude students’ artwork and shiny posters with a frog and wheel on them. There were words on them too, of course, but Malcolm couldn’t read them yet. 

“Here we are! Ms. Jackson’s room!” Mrs. Watkins said as they stopped in front of a door covered top-to-bottom with cartoony bees, ladybugs, and grasshoppers. It was an odd decorating choice, if you asked Malcolm. But no one did, so he stayed quiet. Mrs. Watkins opened the door, peeked inside, smiling, as she opened it the rest of the way, motioning Malcolm inside. “Diane,” Mrs. Watkins said, presumably to Ms. Jackson, “your new student is here.” She smiled reassuringly at Malcolm and left. Malcolm did not feel reassured. 

From her chair in front of a crowd of children, sitting on the floor, Ms. Diane Jackson called Malcolm up to the front of the room, introduced herself to him as “Ms. Jackson, but you can call me Ms. J if that’s easier”, before turning to the students sitting on a rainbow-checkered carpet and announcing, “Class, this is Malcom.” A far too in-sync chorus of “Hi, Malcolm”s for his comfort came from the students, and she continued, “He’s our new student! Malcolm, do you want to tell us a few things about yourself? Where you moved from, your favorite color, and your favorite animal?” 

Malcom shuffled, glancing around the mass of eager faces waiting to hear what this stranger had to say. “I’m Malcolm, I moved here from Leicester, in England, my favorite color’s red, and–” 

He was cut off by a blond kid in sweatpants and a graphic tee in the front row, whose hand shot up with a question, although he didn’t wait for his turn to speak, and said “Y’ talk funny.” Malcolm felt these were awfully strong words coming from a boy who sounded like the epitome of American idiocy. 

A few giggles arose from a few students, but Ms. J-if-that's-easier, face no longer smiling, simply snapped her fingers at the boy, and pointed towards the door. “Trip. Hallway.” The boy, Trip, began to protest, but she cut him off. “Don’t make me tell you twice.” The giggles continued as he stood and headed for the door. Malcolm was very grateful that he still had his backpack, as it gave him something to grip, putting all his embarrassment and anger into his now-white fingertips pressing into the fabric of the backpack straps. He very much wanted to go home, or, at the very least, sit down. 

Things were, all things considered, rather uneventful until recess. They’d spent some time counting to fifty, singing the alphabet, and naming colors, although Malcolm got a bit hung up on Z. But when Ms. J-if-that's-easier announced recess time, there was a mad scramble to push in chairs, pull on coats, and line up in number order. Malcolm was told he was number 25, so that meant he was last. He was okay with that. It was less crowded. In an orderly fashion he had not come to expect from this wild group of peers, they all filed out of the class, down the hall, and out into the fenced-off playground area, where everyone took off in different directions. 

Except Malcolm, who had a book with lots of pictures of cars and trucks and sat down on some steps under an overhang. After only a minute, his sunlight was blocked and he looked up to see the boy from before, who’d been sent into the hallway. Malcolm said nothing and went back to looking at his book. 

“’M sorry ‘bout what I said earlier.” The boy mumbled, fidgeting with his shirt hem. 

A beat. 

“You talk funny, too.” Malcolm responded, glancing up. The boy grinned, taking that as a joke of sorts. 

He sat down next to Malcolm, the two sitting in silence for only a moment before the boy began talking again. “Have you ever met th’ queen? She’s got th’ same name as m’ sister, but m’ momma and daddy di’n’t name Lizzie after the queen.” 

“Have you ever met the president?” Malcom replied, flipping the page without looking at him. 

The boy paused thoughtfully, giving a decided, “No”. He seemed to be uncomfortable in the silence that followed, still fidgeting with his shirt hem, now also chewing on his lip. “My sneakers light up, wanna see?” Without waiting for an answer, he stood, stomping his feet on the asphalt, making some blue and red lights flash on the sides on them. Malcolm smiled politely. He hadn’t seen trainers like that before, and they were, indeed, very cool, but he didn’t know how to say it without it coming out awkwardly. So he just kept on smiling. This didn’t seem to disappoint the boy, only encouraging him to talk more about how these were his favorite shoes, how he got them for his birthday, and that he was pretty sure they made him run faster. If Malcolm had to be honest, though, his interest in the boy’s ramblings had dipped, and his focus was back on the book, and on the fancy red car on the page. This, unsurprisingly, did not last long either, as the book was ripped out of his hands, the boy excitedly saying, “I know this car! Y’ like cars? I think they’re really neat! This one’s th’ Lamborghini Countach! It’s a ‘talian car, and it was bein’ made in th’ seventies and eighties. I think it was th’ first t’ have th’ up-an'-down doors. One time I gotta sit in one ‘cuz my gran’pa works at a aw-tuh-muh-beel repair shop. Isn’t that the coolest?” 

“Can I have my book back?” Malcolm asked tentatively. This boy, who apparently knew quite a bit about cars, had far more energy and bounce than Malcolm was really prepared to deal with, and he wouldn’t be allowed to get a new book if this one got torn. 

Malcom didn’t miss the dejection in the boy’s voice as he handed the book back, going back to his mumbled apology. “Oh, yeah, sorry. Here.” Malcolm took it, watching as the boy shuffled off, kicking a rock as he went. 

“Do you want to look at the pictures with me?” Malcolm asked. 

The boy turned back, racing to sit down at his side again. “Would I?!” He grinned and reached for the book. 

Holding it out of reach, Malcolm added, “So long as you don’t take it from me.” The boy nodded dutifully, sitting on his hands to prevent any further book-snatching. 

At the end of the day, Malcolm realized he still had yet to ask the boy his name, having forgotten it from when Ms. J-if-that's-easier had said it. Awkwardly asking what his name was proved to not be as embarrassing as he had thought, given that the boy enthusiastically gave a whole story to go along. He was Charles Tucker the third, after his father and granddad, and the nickname Trip – what he had been called earlier – was a bit of a pun off “the third”. “The third, triple, Trip”, Trip had put it. Malcolm nodded, being sure to remember it this time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fell down a few research holes while writing this lol  
> First one was, sadly, what kindergarteners wear. I had to pull out my old yearbooks to try and find some sort of outfit that made sense these kids to be wearing. (I only wore one outfit for all of elementary school, so I'm not exactly the expert on 10-years-old-and-younger fashion. (Not literally only one outfit, of course. I mean that I wore bootcut jeans, a t-shirt, and a sweatshirt all day, everyday. No variation. Honestly not my best fashion choice)).  
> Second one was cars. I know jack shit about cars, but the Lamborghini I was doing a bit of research on for Trip was actually hella neat lmao
> 
> Also the frog posters from the beginning were something from my own elementary walls. It was some sort of anti-bullying campaign. Very basic "say no to the bully and tell a teacher" stuff.


	2. Anthony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow this chapter took way longer than I meant it to, sorry about that!  
> Also I'm incapable of not projecting at least a little bit onto characters, so Malcolm is Jewish now. (But very reformed. It'll be explained more later in the fic, trust me).  
> Sorry this is a shorter chapter, they'll be longer in the future! :)
> 
> Also, just some warnings:  
> -Use of the word "queer" as a slur  
> -Extremely brief description of domestic abuse  
> -Malcolm's parents are just generally over-controlling and Not Great people  
> (lmk if I need to add more here)

October slowly faded into November, which thusly faded into December, and then to Chanukah, Winter break, and Christmas. Trip and Malcolm, initial differences aside, had grown to become quite close friends, balancing each other out, in a way. Quiet and reserved Malcolm Reed and loud and boisterous Trip Tucker were about as odd a pair as anyone saw, but it worked. America was not quite as bad as Malcolm thought it might be, what with Trip by his side. 

But the day before they were let out, Malcolm was faced with rather upsetting news, to which he decided against confiding in Trip. How would one go about that anyways? ‘I don’t think I like my father as much as I’m supposed to, but I don’t know why’ wasn’t exactly something Malcolm thought Trip’s mind was capable of grasping, no offense to him. 

Trip, however, _was_ capable of grasping that Malcolm wasn’t thrilled about Winter break for some reason and tried to help in the few ways he knew how, despite it never having worked before. “Y’ could come over and play at my house ev’ry day! We’d build gingerbread houses an’ watch cowboy movies.” Trip proposed, but both knew the answer would be no. It always was. Malcolm’s mother got too worried about Trip’s energy levels in her own home and was worried about bad influences at the Tuckers’. 

“I’ll ask.” Malcolm replied. Again, both already knew the answer. 

Winter break trudged by, Malcolm spending most of it in his room, engrossed in a book on pyrotechnics, bright, fiery explosions on every page. It didn’t snow, not even on Christmas Eve. He avoided his father as much as possible, despite the near-impossibility of it. 

One unlucky instance occurred when his younger sister, Madeline, had begged him to play dolls with her, and he had agreed, seeing no reason why not to. His father, on the other hand, found reason. One extremely stern lecture later, Malcolm was now quite aware that boys didn’t play with dolls, and certainly not Reed boys. He was miserable. 

On the first day back in early January, Malcolm hadn’t walked two steps in the door to the classroom before Trip was on him like a dog greeting its owner when they come home. 

“Hi, Malcolm! Didj’ have a good break? I had th’ best! My momma and daddy’s aunts ‘n’ uncles an’ all our cousins came over an’ we all watched a zillion movies an’ played games way past my bedtime! Lizzie an’ Will stayed up, too! Ben an’ ‘Rina uh-course stayed up, ‘cuz they’re big kids. I’ve a new baby cousin, didj’ know? His name’s Ant... Ano... Antha....” While Trip caught his breath and struggled to sound out the aforementioned baby cousin’s name, Malcolm put his bag away. Trip, however rowdy his personality was, was nicely consistent. “Anthony!” The blond boy finally managed, grinning over expectantly at Malcolm. 

Odd place to end, Malcolm thought, before replying, “Is he cute?” It was the general consensus that babies were cute, and he was curious if this baby also fit the mold. 

Trip burst out laughing, drawing the eye of the surrounding children putting away their own bags. “He’s only a baby, y’ can’t have a crush on ‘im!” 

Malcolm was confused as to why it was all so funny, but didn’t ask further, as Trip’s abruptly loud laughter had startled him into silence. 

At dinner that night, Malcolm was still thinking about it, intent on asking his parents for answers. Of course, he had to wait until after dinner to talk, as it wasn’t permitted during. 

Reaching to take the dishes from the table, he piped up, “Today Trip told me about his new baby cousin, Anothy, and I asked if he was cute. Trip laughed and said I wasn’t allowed to have a crush on him because he was a baby. Why?” 

_Thwack_. A hand connected with the back of Malcolm’s head, pain spreading like a headache of pins and needles. He cried out, clutching the back of his head as tears threatened to pour from his eyes. Malcolm turned to face his father through blurry vision. 

“Don’t ever bring up that queer shit in this house again.” he growled. And with that, the man simply walked off. 

Malcolm, leaning on the table and clutching his head, left with far more questions than answers, came to a simple-enough conclusion amongst it all: ‘Queer shit’, whatever that was, was bad and should be avoided at all costs. 


	3. Six perfect drawings with their crinkled edges

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops it has been a month, sorry abt that!  
> I was busy getting diagnosed with ADHD and trying to stay on top of assignments for at least the first couple weeks of the new semester.  
> But this is a longer chapter to make up for it!! :) (also mostly from our boy Trip's POV)!
> 
> P.S.  
> I don't know if it's just on my end, but the spacing is all weird and I don't know how to fix it, so apologies if it's like that for y'all as well  
> Wait, okay, I think I fixed it! :)

Malcolm was becoming a constant source of bad news, as the school year came to a close, growing ever more the contrast to Trip, who, despite everything, still kept up his persona of optimism. Not that Malcolm had stopped to dwell on whether it was a mask or how well Trip might truly be coping with the news. 

‘The news’ being that Malcolm was moving. The date had started well into first grade, but over the course of a month, had been moved closer and closer, until it was two days before school let out. They had a week. 

“Maybe we c’n send letters! Like on paper and in th’ mail, y’know?” Trip hung upside down from the monkey bars by his knees, looking down at Malcolm, who was standing on the ground, glancing around in case a teacher approached them. Kindergarteners weren’t allowed to hang upside down from the monkey bars, and Malcolm had a sneaking suspicion that none of the other grades were either. This did not stop Trip, and Malcolm had long ago given up on trying to convince him out of it. “My momma says she wrote letters t’ her friends when she was in high school ‘cuz there wasn’t any email. That’s like letters but on th’ computer.” 

Malcolm kicked at the bark chips. “I don’t know how to write letters. There’s stuff on the outside of the envelope.” He also still struggled quite a bit with reading, but didn’t feel the need to share that part. 

Trip chewed on his lower lip, brows furrowed deep in thought. After a minute of this silence, he climbed down, landing with a _thud_ beside Malcolm. “I have an idea,” he said, “But it’s gonna be a surprise.” 

“Okay–” 

The end-of-recess ball rang, and there was a mad dash from all over the playground for the door. 

“I’ll race ya!” Trip announced, taking off before getting an answer, leaving Malcolm to scramble after him. 

The instant Trip was off the bus and in the door, he had dissolved into hysterics. 

His momma rushed over to him, worried “What’s wrong?”s tumbling from her lips. 

“Malcolm’s gonna leave an’ ah’m nev’r gonna see ‘im again an’ ah dunno how t’ write letters an’ ‘e’s not ev’n gonna be here fer th’ las’ day a’ school!” He wailed into her arms. 

So perhaps Malcolm was incorrect in thinking Trip was coping alright. 

Trip’s momma ran her fingers through her son’s dirty blond hair as he sobbed buckets into her shoulder. He said other things, but through the ragged breaths and tears, not much of it was comprehensible. She hugged him tight for what felt like to Trip as hours, before he stood, wiping his eyes and hiccupping. 

“I’m gonna go make ‘im a gift now.” And with that, he scurried up the stairs to he and his brother Ben’s room. 

“Well, okay then.” She said upon hearing the sound of the door shut. 

This was Trip’s grand surprise. He was going to create the best gift in the history of gift-making. Every last one of his – albeit limited – art skills were to be put to use for this. Nothing too big or over the top (Malcolm didn’t like extravagant things like that. It called too much attention to him.), but it had to including aspects of Malcolm’s favorite things. He wrote up a list: 

Explosions(!!!!) 

Red 

LEGOs 

Cars (gun cars) 

Suddenly, it was as if Trip’s mind had been wiped of every single interaction with Malcolm, as he could not think of more of Malcolm’s favorites or interests for the life of him. Ah well, he thought, this’ll be long enough for now. If he were to think of anything else along the way, he’d just add it in. 

And so he set to work on a drawing unlike anything he’d drawn before. After a couple minutes of trying – and failing – to draw a tank, he asked Ben to lend his slightly-more-talented skills. Considering that a third of the page was now covered with Ben’s tank, this truly was unlike anything he’d drawn before. Malcolm, however, Trip decided, needn’t know that. 

He worked until dinnertime, and only stopped afterwards because his parents wouldn’t let him put off his homework any further. An hour and a half, 8 simple addition problems, and 17 “Trip, are you working?”s later, he was done and back up the stairs to get back to the world’s most important drawing, which had, over the course of the week, turned into six. Ben’s skills had been utilized several times. 

As Trip sat on the kindergarten-only bus on the final morning of what he understood to be his and Malcolm's friendship, he filtered through his drawings, clutched tightly in his small hands. The first one featured Ben’s tank blowing up an – empty, he had assured his momma – house, tank adorned with Trip’s crooked drawing of the English flag. Ben also helped with a military Jeep on the second drawing, and a Lamborghini Countach on the third, alongside Trip’s additions of a stick figure shooting a gun behind him and a racetrack with a checkered flag, respectively. The next three were completely done by Trip. The first of the three was of two smiling stick figures next to a house-looking building labeled “scool” and a swing set, one with a red body and brown hair, the other with a blue body and yellow hair (Trip’s favorite color was also red, but he was worried that, given it had only been his favorite color since befriending Malcolm, it would be considered stealing or copying of some sort, and decided to just give himself a blue outfit in the drawings. It had, after all, been his favorite color before red). The second was of a faceless (whoops, Trip thought, upon realizing he’d forgotten a face), all-green stick figure shooting a large gun, explosions all around him, and the third of the same stick figure versions of Trip and Malcolm atop a grand castle with a drawbridge. Throughout all six drawings, Trip had put an inch of blue sky at the top, and a smiling, sunglasses-wearing sun in the top left corner. He’d put extra effort into not leaving white spots in the ground and sky when scribbling them in, colored in all the cars and buildings, and even drawn in blades of grass and flowers growing from the ground in the ones of him and Malcolm at school and the castle. These drawings had to be perfect, and he’d made sure they were. 

Trip hoped Malcolm thought the same. 

He also hoped Malcolm was actually going to be at school that day. And now that the thought had occurred to him, it planted itself firmly into his brain, worry consuming him. Malcolm couldn’t leave yet. Trip had put in all this hard work to make sure his best friend would be receiving the perfect moving-away gift. Trip wasn’t ready for Malcolm to be gone. Malcolm had to be at school that day, he had to! Trip chewed at his lips until they stung to the touch and stared at the smiling sun on the top page for the rest of the bus ride. 

All Ms. J really had planned for the last four days was various clean-up games, reading time, free time for whatever school-appropriate activities the students wanted to do, a few final wrap-up lessons, and a handful of voted-on movies. Like any students less than a week away from the end of the schoolyear, the kids in Ms. J’s class were “hyper as all hell”, as Trip’s momma would have put it. So, when he walked in, placed his drawings in his desk for safekeeping, sat down, and could not stop fidgeting and moving about in his seat, he fit right in and was, for the first time all year, not told off for kicking his legs against the chair, tapping the desk, interrupting, and all sorts of other actions that were, for these last few days, only getting a simple “Trip, remember to raise your hand before you speak and wait your turn” after accidentally cutting another student off for the fourth time in ten minutes. 

Malcolm had yet to show up, nearly an hour into the day. The worry from earlier set in stronger than ever, eventually becoming so much in the forefront of his thoughts that he’d zoned out and failed to notice Malcolm sit down next to him during class reading time, two hours late. 

Trip jumped when something bumped his knee, eyes refocusing on a pale face, combed brown hair, and blue-gray eyes. Malcolm’s blue-gray eyes! He burst into a wide grin that stretched from ear to ear, whispering, “At recess, I got somethin’ for y’!” Or at least he thought it was a whisper-voice. A handful of shushes from around him said otherwise. It ceased to phase Trip, however. Malcolm was here, they would play together at recess, and Trip would give him the six perfect drawings. He zoned out again, this time focused on recess with Malcolm, all worries lost for the time being. 

When recess did finally roll around, Trip was the first to stand in his line spot, six papers with their edges now slightly crinkled held to his chest safely. Outside, the blacktop was hot enough to make waves in the air, so Trip sat down on the steps under the overhang from Malcolm’s first day when he had the book of cars with the red Lamborghini Countach, waiting for the aforementioned boy to join him. It was taking forever. The minute it took for the class to be let outside and then for Malcolm to join him on the steps felt like hours. 

“Here!” Trip said, shoving the six papers towards Malcolm as soon as he sat down. “This is that surprise I was talkin’ about, if y’ re-nem-ber.” He dug his teeth into his bottom lip as Malcolm silently flipped through them. There was a lack of any apparent reaction on Malcolm’s part, and Trip began to fill the silence with chatter and pointing out details in the drawings he was now worried weren’t as perfect as originally thought. “I drew these all by m’self except for th’ cars, ‘cuz y’ know I dunno how to draw cars, really. But th’ explosions an’ ev’rythin’ else is all by me! We’re in a castle in this one, ‘cuz I think there’s castles in England, right? That’s y’ in red, an’ I’m in blue. I did that ‘cuz I know y’ like red a lot an’ I didn’ wanna get y’ all confused with who was who in it by havin’ us th’ same color, so that’s why I’m in blue, ev’n though I think red’s real cool, too. Well, I guess it ain’t really cool, ‘cuz red’s like a hot color an’ all, but y’ know what I mean an’ stuff. This red car here’s th’ Lamborghini Countach from that book y’ had on the first day, re-nem-ber? An’ it’s crossin’ the finish line first ‘cuz it’s real fast. An’ d’ y’ like the England flag I put on th’ tank? I nearly did the Britain flag, ‘til m’ daddy said it’s all different an’ stuff. The Britain flag's almost as complicated as th’ ‘merican flag with all it’s lines an’ colors. Maybe it’s even more complicated than the ‘merican flag, y’ think? Here’s us again, but this time it’s us at school, ‘stead uh th’ castle on th’ other one. We’re holdin’ hands, see? That way, y’ c’n always re-nem-ber we were friends an’–” Trip’s voice caught on the lump in his throat, and he turned to look firmly down at the blacktop. 

A beat.

“I like it. Thank you.” 

Trip glanced up and to the side. Malcolm was looking at him, smiling. Trip’s grin grew back into place as he straightened. “Y’ do? For real?” 

Malcolm nodded. “Yeah. They're perfect.” 

And so they were. Six perfect drawings, just as Trip had said – well, to himself, but said nonetheless. The thought sent a warmth to Trip cheeks, completely unrelated to the boiling sun. 

The emotional high of Malcolm saying the drawings were perfect carried Trip until exactly 6:43 pm that night, when a numb feeling of loss set in, along with the knowledge that the day had truly been the end, that he would never see Malcolm again. The last day of school wasn’t nearly as exciting as it should have been. Malcolm took all Trip’s excitement with him.


	4. A short, angsty chapter that I originally wasn’t going to write, but then beatles_bum gave me the idea, and so here we are :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lol

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey so anyone who I said this wouldn't be that angsty to,, uh sorry lol
> 
> Warnings:  
> -Babes it's Stuart Reed again :)  
> -"queer" used as a slur several times, mostly through Malcolm's internal monologue  
> lmk if I need to add more

The house was pretty much emptied of all their belongings, those of importance all packed up, and everything else sold, leaving only a couple air mattresses, toiletries, and a kids puzzle book with a few crayons for Malcolm and Madeline. Every room felt too big, every wall too plain. 

Malcolm set the six perfect drawings on the kitchen island and flipped open the puzzle book, red crayon in hand. 

“What are these?” Malcolm looked up to find his father flipping through Trip’s six perfect drawings. He repeated himself, this time with a slight edge to his voice, “What are these? Did you draw them?” 

“Trip drew them.” 

A nod. His father made to set them back down, but whichever drawing he’d just flipped to gave him pause. There was a rage behind his eyes as he growled, “What did I tell you about queer shit, Malcolm?” 

Malcolm began to feel the nauseating swirl of panic in his gut. Oh no. One of the drawings was ‘queer shit’? Was Trip part of ‘queer shit’? He didn’t want Trip to be part of ‘queer shit’. 

“Malcolm! Look at me and respond to me when I am talking to you!” 

Malcolm flinched. “It’s bad. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.” 

“Damn right you won’t.” 

There was a look on the older man’s face that Malcolm couldn’t read. Perhaps he’d give Malcolm back the drawings? Or at least the ones that weren’t ‘queer shit’? They couldn’t all be ‘queer shit’, right? 

Malcolm began to reach out to take the drawings back. 

Cars were okay, guns were okay, explosions were okay, red was okay. None of those things had caused reprimand before. Oh no, he thought as he came to the horrible conclusion that it must be Trip, himself, that was ‘queer shit’. No, no, that wouldn’t do. That would mean that _all_ the drawings were ‘queer shit’, as they were all drawn by Trip. 

He pulled back as if the drawings had somehow singed him. Malcolm did not want his father to think he still wanted Trip’s drawings, that he wanted any part of ‘queer shit’. But, oh, now he was conflicted. Malcolm did, in fact, want the drawings, and desperately so. He wanted to feel the waxy crayon and the slightly-crinkled paper, feel the hard work and emotion that Trip had poured into those streaks of color. But.... It was bad. He shouldn’t want that. Whatever 'queer shit' was, he shouldn't want it at all. 

A horrible sound jerked Malcolm from his thoughts. Paper ripping, tearing, shredding. Scraps of color were all that was now left of the six perfect drawings in his father’s hands. He bit back a cry, everything inside him seeming to shrivel up and die right there. The crayon snapped in half in his clenched hand. He jumped, having forgotten he’d still been holding it. 

Malcolm did not see when his father dumped the handful of scraps into the trash. He did not see when Madeline sat down next to him with her own crayon. He did not see the takeout food dinner that night, nor the light go out and his mother wishing him goodnight as he lay on a deflating air mattress. His vision was blurry with tears that could not fall until he was plunged into the pitch-black, where they streamed silently down his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not my best! :) (the smiley here is a look of pain)
> 
> I do really like the sentance, "He wanted to feel the waxy crayon and the slightly-crinkled paper, feel the hard work and emotion that Trip had poured into those streaks of color" tho. The imagery is nice :)


End file.
